How I Failed as an Independent Filmmaker

(or, "The essay that got me into film school at NYU")

::: :: : Everything below is taken directly from my application. : :: :::

A Brief Note:
"My producer" refers to Patrick Wilson, my best friend.      My producer and I leaned on the metal bars that separated us from the Los Angeles skyline. The city ( Read more... )

An old friend of mine (brokendiamond) just posted a fucking amazing entry about relationships, "nice guys," feminine passion and the suspension of love ( Read more... )

okay waiting four and a half hours for that cab was definitely worth it ( Read more... )

You took me to a restaurant I couldn't afford and paid my bill. You talked about Otto von Bismark, your first marriage, Ken Kesey, the devastation of Tibet and The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. You said "I've met with presidents and plumbers, executives and mechanics, the incredibly rich and the incredibly poor and I've realized all that doesn't ( Read more... )

I want to scream so loud I explode into ten thousand fucking million pieces ( Read more... )

I want to ravage someone ( Read more... )

( Medication, Ohio )

I walked out of The Esquire, still shocked from the experience of Jesus Camp and in a pretty good mood to appreciate a few hours in Sitwell's. Seeing a scarred, bearded man in a rippling black overcoat warmed my heart, because his fingers were painting a trembling solo on his acoustic guitar. Cold be damned, this was worth staying outside. I sat ( Read more... )

two stories above the rain-drenched streets where children sell papers and handjobs for sixpence each where the quiet monks pour lighter fluid on their arms and legs but leave their faces dry where watermellon rinds and pineapple cores crawl on the backs of devoted wall street ants where storm drain lids shake from the breath of twelve thousand ( Read more... )

four days ago, I drove cross country in a blue convertible ( Read more... )